Edge of Doom
by orianna-2000
Summary: He could save the universe in his sleep, and yet when it mattered—really mattered—he could do nothing but stand by and let his hearts shatter.
1. The Advertisement

_This is a non-profit work of fan-fiction based upon the television series_ Doctor Who_. All related characters, places, and events, belong to the BBC, and Russell T. Davies, used without permission. This story, with all original content, belongs to the author, © 2008._

* * *

_**Edge of Doom**_  
by Orianna2000 

_Love's not Time's fool, though rosy lips and cheeks__  
__Within his bending sickle's compass come:__  
__Love alters not with his brief hours and weeks,__  
__But bears it out even to the edge of doom.__  
_— Shakespeare, Sonnet 116

-.-.-.-.-.-.-

**Chapter One –_The Advertisement_**

He'd almost missed it.

The timelines had been fluctuating for days, hinting at something monumental to come. The Doctor hated when that happened; it always put him on edge. The texture of the potential timeline suggested something big, something life-altering . . . and yet, triggered by something so small that it might easily be overlooked.

This sort of thing didn't happen often, but the Doctor had long ago learned to pay attention when it did. He'd felt something similar on the day he'd first met Rose, as well as during the weeks preceding the battle of Canary Wharf. Both events had had the potential to swing either direction, and both had dramatically changed his life. But life-altering didn't always mean for the better.

If he'd only known what to look for, he could have actively chosen his fate, but the timelines offered no clue, only a lingering sense of doom.

-.-.-.-.-.-.-

He'd almost missed it.

In fact, he would have completely missed it if it hadn't been for the fact that Sinead had ticked off the sovereign ruler of Genk by refusing to become his tenth concubine, and their subsequent need to find some place to hide.

"Where's the TARDIS?" she'd shouted as she ran several paces behind the Doctor on the rough cobblestone road.

"Here! It should be here!" But, of course, it hadn't been. He'd glanced around in frustration, running his hands through his hair as his companion caught her breath. "I know we left it right here. See the orange triangles on the wall? I remember those."

Sinead shook her head. "I distinctly recall that it was green squares."

"Green. . . ?" The Doctor frowned, pivoting to look at the various symbols. "Orange? Ah, green is the spectrum opposite of orange—I must've transposed the two colours."

"Green is the opposite of orange? On what planet, Doctor?" she asked incredulously.

He blinked at her. "Mine. The real question is, did I also mix up the shapes? Green squares or green triangles . . . think! Which is it?"

"So we're lost?"

"No! No, no, no. Of course not. Being lost assumes that we've no idea where we are," he said with an air of authority. "And we know that we're exactly . . . where the TARDIS is not. See? Not lost. Just in the wrong place. C'mon."

A royal guard marched around the corner, spear in hand. The dull sunlight shimmered across his red silk tunic. His eyes scanned the path, searching . . . finding. He gave a shout, the Doctor grabbed Sinead's arm, and all three ran.

The inhabitants of this world did not go out of their way to help the Doctor and his companion, but neither did they cause trouble. By ducking and weaving, the two of them were able to lose the chasing guard, at least momentarily. As they paused to rest in an alleyway decorated with purple circles, the Doctor shrugged out of his overcoat. He tossed it over Sinead's shoulders. "Pull that up over your hair. You're much too conspicuous!"

With a rueful smile, she obeyed. The evidence of her Celtic ancestry had been what had attracted the Emperor's advances in the first place. Pale skin and red hair always stood out in a crowd—exactly what they did _not_ want right now.

"All right, that'll do," he said, even though a woman with a coat over her head looked nearly as conspicuous as one with flaming red hair. "Let's try to make it past that next intersection. If these symbols are aligned by colour order, then the TARDIS should be another two sections north of here. C'mon."

They entered the street again and tried to look unobtrusive. Several people gave them odd looks, but no one sounded an alarm. A flash of red up ahead signalled the presence of another royal guard, though. They wouldn't stay hidden for long. They ran.

"Here," Sinead shouted, yanking on the Doctor's hand.

He followed willingly through the open doorway. A museum? "History of Human Communications. Isn't that brilliant? Oh, right. Tickets."

The psychic paper got them past the ticket counter and into an anteroom filled with a dozen other people. A woman at the end of the room smiled the generic sort of smile of tour guides across the universe.

"Welcome! This exhibit is sponsored by Psyberwolf Communications—technology of the future at your fingertips. Our tour today will feature the history of written, verbal, and psychic communication from the beginning of the human race. Please refrain from touching the artefacts or taking images. This way, please."

The Doctor straightened his tie and obediently got into line. Odd that the name of the company had "wolf" in it . . . not "bad wolf", but close enough that it gave him a bit of a chill down his spine.

Beside him, Sinead adjusted the coat over her shoulders and ran her fingers through her hair. He did the same, and hoped they wouldn't get thrown out for looking disreputable. Running for one's life got the blood pumping, but it also tended to leave one a bit rumpled.

"Back on old Earth, long before civilisation began, people had no verbal communication skills," said the tour guide. Everyone followed her into a room with curved walls made of imitation stone. She gestured to the painted cave walls. "As cave-dwellers slowly gave their primitive sounds meaning, they likewise gave significance to their primitive sketches, and used them to record their history. Accordingly, a man could illustrate events on the cave walls using charcoal or dyes made from crushed fruits."

The next room showed a toga-clad man writing on a stone tablet with a carved reed.

"Cuneiform was the first example of a written script," the guide said, gesturing to the wall, upon which someone had carved row after row of vertical, horizontal, and diagonal slashes.

The Doctor slipped on his glasses to examine the cuneiform writing, but after a moment he snorted. "Someone's idea of a joke! Literally. It's a dirty joke, originating in Sumeria."

"Let me guess. You're the one who told the joke to the Sumerian king, yeah?" Sinead smirked.

"Do you really think I'd stoop so low?" He paused and then winked at her. "Actually, Rose is the one who told the joke to the king. She must've heard it from Jack, because Mickey would've thought _that_ was physically impossible."

Sinead frowned. "Rose? Mickey? Old companions of yours?"

The Doctor looked at her, startled. "But I've told you about them. Must have! Hundreds of times. Rose . . . you know, Rose. My Rose? Mickey the idiot. No?"

"You've mentioned Captain Jack once or twice, but not the others."

"But that's impossible," he murmured, feeling a sharp pang of guilt. He'd promised he wouldn't forget about Rose, that he wouldn't sweep her memory under the rug, and yet here he had a companion who'd been with him more than a year, but had no idea who Rose Tyler was.

With a sigh, he hurried to put his glasses away and catch up with the group.

They strolled past robotic men writing on parchment, then paper. Quills evolved into fountain pens and then typewriters. The next room featured the printing press. The walls contained shelves of antique books, with several open on display in protective glass cases. The Doctor leaned over one, squinting to read the tiny text. After a moment he made an astonished face. "Oh. Oh, oh, oh! But, this is brilliant! A Gutenberg Bible! Genuine, and in exquisite condition. The rarest book that exists in this time period! I'd like to know how they got their hands on it."

Beside it, presented with equal reverence, lay a menu from a restaurant.

Minutes later, they passed by an exhibit of early lawmakers hard at work. The Doctor chortled at an animatronic Benjamin Franklin dressed in clothing from the wrong century.

"I knew old Ben," he murmured to Sinead, "and d'you know, I think he'd rather like wearing jeans and trainers! He certainly seemed impressed by Jack's blue jeans."

"They're only a couple centuries off," she whispered back. "Could be worse."

"What, you mean like Neil Armstrong wearing scuba gear instead of a spacesuit?" He pointed to the next exhibit, which showed astronauts using radios to communicate with the planet below. Sure enough, the lead figure stepping out of the space craft wore a skin-tight wetsuit, complete with heavy oxygen tanks strapped to his back, bright yellow flippers on his feet, and matching goggles on his face. The Doctor and Sinead couldn't hold back their snickering.

"Well, least it's got oxygen," she pointed out. "And it does sort of look like a bio-suit."

"About a century too soon for that, and besides, it _isn't_ a bio-suit, it's a wetsuit." The Doctor shook his head. "As soon as this tour's over, we need to have nice chat with whoever's in charge here."

"Actually, we'll need to make a run for the TARDIS when we're done here," she reminded him.

He made a face. "Bother. I'd forgotten about that. Having entirely too much fun here."

As the tour guide droned on, they passed a glass case holding an Edwardian brass and wood telephone, a classic radio from the 1930s, a set of walkie-talkies from the 1980s, and an array of wafer-thin mobile phones.

"However," the guide continued, "these forms of communication lasted only until the advent of something called the Internet, at which point people could use their personal computers to download information from anywhere in the world. By means of the Internet, people could also communicate with anyone on the planet, and so these more primitive methods fell into immediate disuse."

The Doctor could hardly keep a straight face. Sinead nudged him. "Don't you dare say a word. If you cause a commotion, they'll toss us out on the street and we'll be arrested. M'_not_ gonna become a concubine just so you can correct a few mistakes!"

"A _few_. . . ? These people wouldn't know proper history if I took them back in the TARDIS and _showed_ them!" But he folded his arms and followed the group without protest.

For a few minutes the Doctor tuned out the tour guide's words and let his mind wander. It certainly seemed odd that he would find so many reminders of his time with Rose, here in a museum on a world they'd never been to. Before he'd regenerated, he and Rose and Jack had spent time in the late 18th century with Benjamin Franklin . . . and he'd never forget how lovely Rose had looked in that wide-skirted calico gown. With Mickey tagging along, they'd witnessed the first moon landing. And they'd visited ancient Sumeria just a few weeks before he'd lost Rose.

So many memories of Rose in one place. . . it couldn't be a coincidence. Not with the alarming tug of diverging timelines casting a shadow over everything. He would have to keep a sharp eye out if he wanted to prevent a catastrophe.

"Once people began abandoning old Earth," the guide said, "interstellar communication became vital. They developed the star-wave for visual communications, though a slight lag in timing could not be overcome. Within planetary systems, the old-fashioned newspaper made a comeback. People could send and receive non-urgent news, fiction, and even personal advertisements, without wasting vital energy."

The Doctor slipped on his glasses to examine the newspapers displayed. A few were old enough that they did not belong in this section of the museum. The_ Ayrshire Post_, for example, certainly did not come from any colony world! But the later ones did. Many had clever three-dimensional engravings or embedded sound bites.

"New New York mayoral election ends with a landslide victory for Edwin Brovlocc Alpha-di'Shiin," he read aloud. "Ha! I remember that. He only won because the opposing candidates all came down with the Martian influenza."

"Doctor," Sinead called.

"Just a minute." He crouched to see one of the lower papers. "Invasion by Ice Warriors. Three million citizens of Gamma Epsilon killed. We tried to stop that, me and Rose."

"Doctor!"

As he straightened, he noticed that the tour group had gone ahead, leaving them alone at this end of the room. He turned with a frown to find Sinead standing in front of a newspaper tacked behind a sheet of glass. "What is it?"

"Didn't you say you knew someone named Rose?" Her eyes sparkled with amusement.

"Yes, so I did. It's a bit of a long story, though. I'll tell you all about her once we're back at the TARDIS." He waved his hand vaguely at the retreating tour group. "They're gonna leave without us."

"You really should see this. Personal advertisements, from Earth."  
"Oh? I noticed that some of these papers are older than they're supposed to be. Probably quite valuable." He walked over and stood beside her. The prescient feeling increased to a tingle at the back of his neck. He scratched the spot and glanced about the room. The tour group had disappeared; they were alone with the exhibits. No invading aliens, or monsters, nothing dangerous at all. Just a lot of ancient newspapers. Still, he kept on guard, and only gave Sinead half his attention.

"Personals. From London," she clarified, grinning.

He looked at her with a blank face. "As I said: yes, so?"

"A personal ad, in a thousand-year-old London newspaper. . . ." She paused, and her smile turned teasing. ". . . For you."

He stared at her. Then blinked. "What?"

"Look! See for yourself." Barely able to contain her mirth, she gestured to the ancient English paper. "Just above the crossword."

She was only winding him up, but the Doctor felt a weight on his chest, hampering every breath. What could be so perilous about a newspaper advertisement? Gathering his courage, he ran a finger down the column, careful not to touch the security glass. "Ah, here we go."

_To the Doctor—__  
__Nothing's impossible!__  
__Waiting for you,__  
__Harbour Drive, Cardiff Bay__  
__—Forever, Rose_

The Doctor's glasses clattered to the floor.

_(To Be Continued. . . .)_

* * *

_**Author's Notes:**__ A lot of people helped me to make this story cohesive; I must say thank you to **Dame Ruth**, **Humansrsuperior**, **Little Zink**, **Aligoestonz**, and the writers at **A Teaspooner's Workshop**._


	2. Parting Ways

**Chapter Two – _Parting Ways_**

_To the Doctor—_  
_Nothing's impossible!_  
_Waiting for you,_  
_Harbour Drive, Cardiff Bay_  
—_Forever, Rose_

-.-.-.-.-.-.-

"What the _hell_ was that about?" Sinead demanded, wheezing and out of breath. She leaned against the closed TARDIS doors and slid to the metal floor. "You could have got us killed!"

"Impossible—the universe wouldn't be so cruel. Not now." The Doctor smoothed the stolen newspaper page against the console with hands that trembled. This was what he'd been sensing, this opportunity. Now the timelines had settled into their chosen path, irrevocably set, and he'd done it right, apparently, for now he had the means to find Rose.

"You kept saying that, all the way back: 'impossible' . . . what's impossible?"

"Apparently? Nothing. Nothing at all!" He grinned but Sinead just tossed her head.

"Whatever_ that_ means." She pushed herself up and used the railing to help her get to the top of the ramp. "You're not making any sense."

"Oh, I make perfect sense! It's the universe that doesn't. Or didn't, 'til now."

"And what, suddenly it does? All because you stole a newspaper from the museum?"

"Oi!" He pointed at her. "_Borrowed_, thank you very much. I'll give it back. Someday. Maybe. And even if I didn't, they don't need it. They've got hundreds of newspapers! But this . . . this one's meant for me." His eyes took on a manic gleam as his fingers hovered in the air just over the tiny advertisement in the middle of the page.

After a moment, he reluctantly pulled his gaze from the paper in order to rummage around the console. He found what he needed in the form of a small can, which made a rattling sound as he shook it, then hissed as he pressed the top and sprayed a faint mist over the paper. "Protective agent," he explained over his shoulder. "Stops the paper from disintegrating now it's exposed to atmosphere again."

"It would've been fine if you'd left it where it was, behind the glass!"

He looked at her with furrowed eyebrows. "Wouldn't do us any good there, would it?"

"What good does it do us, anyway? You can't really believe that advertisement was meant for you! I was only joking about that. Thought it would make you laugh, not go off your trolley."

"Oh, it's for me," he replied in a reverent tone. "No doubt about that."

"And you couldn't have, I dunno, copied it down or memorized it? Something that wouldn't have gotten us chased by a dozen royal guards?"

"Don't be daft. You're the one who got us chased first, what with refusing the emperor and all. What's a little theft compared with treason against the Empire? Besides, if I'd only copied it down, I wouldn't be able to do this." He carefully turned the preserved sheet of paper over and squinted at it. "The date is only legible on this side. Doesn't do me any good without a precise time to aim for."

Sinead crossed the room with a decided limp and sat down on the jump seat. "What's this all about anyway? Who puts an advertisement in a thousand-year-old newspaper?"

The Doctor grinned at her, looking more alive than he ever had before. "Someone brilliant, that's who."

Sinead didn't know what to say to that, but the Doctor could feel her gaze on him as he moved around the console in a manic dance, spinning wheels and pressing buttons.

"I wonder why Cardiff," he mused, just before pulling the final lever. "She hates Cardiff."

The TARDIS shuddered, but did not thrash about in her usual manner upon landing. The Doctor patted the console fondly. "You'll be glad to see her too, won't you?"

"See_ who_?"

"Who d'you think? Rose!" The Doctor grinned as he shrugged into his coat. "You coming?"

"I'd better not," Sinead answered sourly. "If we end up running, I'd only slow us down. Twisted my ankle back there, running for my life after you snatched that newspaper."

"Oh." He frowned, feeling a twinge of guilt. "Shall I take a look at it?"

"No, don't bother. I'll be fine. Go on, then, find this mysterious Rose."

The Doctor turned to her, indignant. "She's not _mysterious_! Rose may be many things, but enigmatic is not one of them. Her eyes give everything away."

"Well, go on, then. You promised that you'd tell me about her when we got back to the TARDIS. Here we are, a bit worse for the wear, and you've got some explaining to do, Doctor."

"You mean I really haven't told you anything? Blimey!" He added another word that the TARDIS did not translate, and his eyes grew dark. "I promised . . . but it's been so long. I didn't forget! I swear, I didn't forget. But I just . . . sort of . . . _neglected_ to keep talking about her."

Sinead pulled herself up and leaned against the console. "So, tell me now. Someone you travelled with, I take it?"

"Oh, yes. She was my companion . . . oh, such a long time ago. But more than that, she . . . well, we. . . . That is, I—" He cleared his throat and Sinead raised a cinnamon eyebrow. Time Lords didn't blush, and yet he had a sneaking suspicion that his face had turned red. He swore again, ran a hand through his hair, and then began to talk, rushing the words together as he paced around the room. "Rose Marion Tyler, born in London, 1986. A little thing, but so strong, so brave, and so brilliant. Worked in a shop before I came along. Didn't belong there, though—Rose belonged out here, exploring the whole universe. Saved my life, she did—more than once, actually. Saved the world, saved the universe. Saved us all."

He stopped for a moment and his eyes felt suspiciously wet. His hands disappeared into his pockets. "Saved me from myself, too."

"I'm glad," Sinead said with a wistful smile.

"So. Sure you won't come with?" He headed for the door, but stopped abruptly and turned around so fast that it startled Sinead. "I almost forgot! How do I look?"

As his companion failed to restrain her amusement, the Doctor patted his jacket down, adjusted his collar, and ran his fingers through his hair. "A bit of grey," he said with a frown, "But not too bad, I think."

"You look fine," she assured him, still smiling. "S'only a trace of grey at the temples—very distinguished."

"You think?" He combed his fingers through his hair once more.

"She isn't gonna care. Go on!"

"All right." He let out a deep breath, then opened the door and went outside.

A few minutes later, he came back in, dripping wet.

"Wrong time," he muttered, his eyes narrowed and practically gleaming with irritation. "Wrong time! Stupid! I must've gotten the numbers mixed up. This is 2010, not 2070. And what's she doing so far in the future, anyway? Must have something to do with the time exchange flow between universes. . . ."

With that, he stormed over to the console.

"2010? Really?"

"Really," he said, not looking up from the controls. A drop of water found its way down his nose. "Spring. It's raining."

She stood. "Well then, that settles it. This is close enough to home for me."

He stared at her. A bit of hurt crept into his voice. "You're leaving? What'd you want to go and do that for?"

"Doctor, you're not gonna want me around once you've found Rose. Don't try to argue, I can see it in your eyes. I'd just be in the way."

"I've had more than one companion at a time. Do it all the time, matter of fact! TARDIS is plenty big enough for three."

"Yeah, but . . . this is Rose. You might not have mentioned her before, but you didn't have to. I can tell—she's special, yeah?"

"I . . . I loved her. And then I lost her." He met Sinead's gaze across the console and once again his eyes lit up. "But now it seems she's done the impossible and found her way back."

"Then you don't need me around, getting in the way. If she feels even a fraction of what you're feeling right now, she's not gonna want a stranger around, ruining your reunion." She walked around the console to stand in front of the Doctor. "You haven't seen her for a long time. You didn't say, but it's been at least ten years, yeah? Maybe twenty?"

He nodded vaguely. "Something like that." _Thirty-nine years, eight months, three weeks, two days, twenty hours, and . . . forty-one minutes._

She just smiled. "It's been an amazing couple of years, Doctor. But everything ends. It's time for you to go find Rose. You can look me up again someday, yeah?"

The Doctor hugged her fiercely. "You can count on that. If you get bored, go to Torchwood. Tell them that I sent you and they'll give you a job. I know their leader—good people. And if you ever need anything, you call me, got it?"

"Got it." Sinead picked up a small backpack that had been hidden beneath the jump seat and shouldered it.

"You packed everything in that one little bag?" He raised his eyebrows in disbelief, not addressing the fact that she'd already been packed and ready to go.

She stuck the tip of her tongue out at him. "Bigger on the inside!"

He grinned. She'd be just fine.

A few minutes later, the TARDIS entered the vortex with just one occupant and the Doctor set the coordinates for the proper year. This time, it'd be right. This time, he'd walk out that door and find Rose . . .

. . . he hoped.

_(To Be Continued. . . .)_


	3. Cardiff, Again

**Chapter Three – _Cardiff, Again_**

_This time, it'd be right. This time, he'd walk out that door and find Rose . . ._  
_. . . he hoped._

-.-.-.-.-.-.-

He double and triple checked the coordinates this time. Twelfth of May, 2070, Cardiff. Or to be more precise, Cardiff Bay. A current of energy ran through him, so palpable that he unconsciously ran his hand through his hair to be sure it hadn't risen on end. Standing in front of the door, the Doctor rolled his shoulders, stretched onto his toes, and then blew a long breath out. This was it. He wiggled his fingers one last time, then opened the door.

Rain, again.

"Oh, come on," he said, giving the sky a dirty look and receiving a face full of water for his trouble. "At least I know we're in the right place: it always looks the same in Cardiff, no matter when you arrive."

Accustomed to giving a running narration to his human companions, the Doctor continued to air his thoughts aloud as he attentively looked in each direction and ignored the constant drizzle. "All right. Here we are, in Cardiff. Thanks to my brilliant ship we've landed right smack dab in the middle of Harbour Drive, but unfortunately we haven't got an address. I suppose I could do a scan for alien tech, but where's the fun in that? Be a lot more interesting to walk around, get to know the natives, investigate the area. Solve the mystery the old fashioned way!"

He rubbed his hands together in anticipation. "If I remember correctly, somewhere around here is a shop that sells rather marvellous chips. Ooh, maybe we should pick some up for Rose. She always did love her chips, and it might save me a slap for not finding a way to bring her home."

The Doctor took two steps in the direction of the shops then stopped and snorted. "Who am I kidding?" he said, and dug around in one of the pockets of his overcoat. "Rose is out there somewhere—let's not waste time. Ah! Here we go, that's more like it. Now we can see who doesn't belong here."

Triumphantly he pulled out a device that looked rather like a mobile phone from the early twenty-first century. He held it up into the air and let it scan. After a few seconds, it beeped, and a map of the area appeared on the tiny screen along with a blinking red dot. "Gotcha! What have you found?"

He wiped the raindrops off the screen and squinted at the energy readings. "Oh! Well, would you look at that! A tiny little perception filter, no bigger than—oh, I dunno—a key?"

With manic joy, the Doctor laughed and took off running.

The energy signature led him along the harbour road to a high-rise flat with a splendid view of the bay. Or, it would have been splendid if not for the clouded skies and steady rain that limited the view. The building stood tall above him, all steel and glass and modern curves, with sheets of water streaming down the windows. It reminded him of the glass waterfall above Jack's hub, at the Millennium Centre.

"Looks like this is the place," he said, but he stopped a few metres from the entrance. A sudden moment of panic struck him. Of course he wanted to see Rose again, more than anything. But the possibility of it happening, after all these years, sent his hearts racing so hard that he found it difficult to breathe.

"Y'like to come in from the rain, mate? Not a day to be out walking, that's for sure."

A lone doorman stood just under the entrance canopy, offering a friendly smile.

The Doctor had to blow out a long breath before he could remember how to smile back. Might as well join the man under the canvas shelter and get dry while he summoned courage. His gaze dropped to the man's name tag. "Tell me something, Mitchell. That's your name, right? So, Mitchell, have you worked here long?"

"Seven years, give or take. Something I can help you with? Thinking to buy a flat, perhaps? I could introduce you to the manager, if y'like."

"No, no, no. Nothing like that." He ran a hand through his hair, smoothing the water out of it. "Actually I'm looking for someone: Rose Tyler. I think perhaps she lives here."

Mitchell frowned thoughtfully. "Tyler? There's a Mr Taylor, up on the third floor, if that's who you mean. But there's no Tylers here."

The Doctor felt a cold rush and his hearts plummeted. Supposing it was all a joke? A huge, disgusting joke on the universe's last Time Lord.

But the doorman continued, "There's a Rose, though. Lives in the penthouse, up top. Sweet thing, she is. Been living here for ages, long before I came around. Her grandson owns the place."

"No, that couldn't be her," the Doctor answered, his momentary hope falling. He felt as though his hearts had broken all over again, and out of habit he forced the pain so deep inside that he only felt a cold numbness. Right now he wanted nothing more than to leave, to crawl into a black hole somewhere. Still, he supposed he ought to investigate, see who had themselves a TARDIS key in this time and place.

"You sure?" the doorman asked. "Grandson's name is Harkness."

The Doctor jerked. He spun to face the doorman. "Jack? _Jack_ Harkness?"

"Aye, d'you know him, then?" He smiled broadly. "Ah, I knew it. She's the one you're looking for. Too bad you didn't come a couple of weeks ago—they celebrated her eighty-fourth birthday like I've never seen. She was too ill to attend, but they gave gifts to all the staff."

"I don't celebrate birthdays. Lost track years ago," the Doctor answered vaguely. His mind spun. Nothing about this made sense. A woman named Rose Harkness? With a grandson named Jack? No doubt distant ancestors of the Jack he knew—or possibly descendants, if the immortal Jack had stayed in Cardiff and had a family. That made more sense. Jack might've named a daughter after Rose, after all, and she could have kept his name in the family.

But why would either of them have a TARDIS key? He couldn't imagine Jack passing the key down to his children as an heirloom. Most of his companions kept their keys until they died—and Jack would never die.

It occurred to him that the key might actually be Jack's, that the man might still be living in Cardiff. But Jack would be taking a terrible risk to stay in the same city, surrounded by people who might notice that he hadn't aged a day in seventy years.

The Doctor sighed. Nothing for it but to go up and find out.

"The penthouse, you say?"

"Aye, that's right. They keep the whole top storey for themselves. The grandson, Jack, lives with the old lady; takes care of her like I can only dream my son'll take care of me when I get on in years. He's got a handful of kids himself, though I can never keep them sorted. They're an odd sort of family, living up there at the top of the world. Nice as can be, though. You won't hear me complaining about my pay, that's for sure, and they're a considerate sort of folk, generous with my yearly bonus and no hesitation to give me time off if I need it."

"Fine, that's fine," the Doctor interrupted, unnerved to find someone with as much of a gob as himself. "Listen, would it be all right if I went on up?"

"Well, normally I'd have to call up and get permission to send you up, but we've been having trouble with the intercom, and what with you being a friend of the family and all, I'm sure they won't mind if I let you in. They'll be pleased to see you, no doubt."

"You're very kind," the Doctor said quickly, before the man could think to ask just exactly _how_ he knew the Harkness family. Come to that, he didn't exactly know how he'd explain himself to this Rose-not-Rose or her grandson, Jack-not-Jack, should he meet them. With any luck, they'd be too busy to see him and he'd be able to sweet talk the maid into letting him have a quick look around. He'd find the TARDIS key easily enough, once inside the flat.

-.-.-.-.-.-.-

To his surprise, no one answered the door. Surely the doorman would've said something if the family had gone out, yet the Doctor knocked twice with no response. He glanced up and down the hallway to ensure no witnesses, then pulled out the sonic screwdriver. A quick high-pitched buzz later and the door opened.

The faint melody of a classic opera floated out from one of the back rooms, but not loud enough for him to recognize, and he heard no other sounds. Perhaps the old woman and her grandson had decided to visit one of the neighbours. He would have a quick look around and be gone, with no harm done. Decided, he slipped into the foyer and shut the door behind him.

These people had money, certainly. His trainers made no sound as he walked across a polished floor of expensive lunar marble, complete with milkworm swirls. He ducked into the first doorway and glanced around the parlour, curious about the inhabitants of this rich flat. On the outside wall hung curtains of silk, puddling beneath the wide windows. All around stood smooth walls the colour of sunrise on Europa, interrupted by the occasional piece of furniture—all in beautiful taste, understated and elegant. These people didn't flaunt their wealth, but neither did they go out of their way to hide it. The Doctor liked them already.

A tall bureau of gleaming redwood beckoned from the far wall. The sonic screwdriver shrilled as he drew close, indicating close proximity to his goal. With a nod of satisfaction, he pulled open the top drawer. But to his consternation, inside lay not one, but _two_ TARDIS keys.

"What have we here?" He held one of the keys up to the light and squinted at it, then repeated the action with the other key. Both appeared genuine, both gave off the faint signal that he'd followed here. Mystified, he shook his head and pocketed both keys. He now had what he'd come for, as far as finding the signal and retrieving a TARDIS key from someone to whom it obviously didn't belong. But finding two keys had only deepened the peculiar situation.

Someone named Rose. Someone named Jack Harkness. Impossible that it could be_his_ Jack and _his_ Rose—not with this Jack being the grandson of this Rose. And yet . . . two TARDIS keys. One could have belonged to the real Jack, but the other? And what about the astonishing newspaper advertisement that had led him here? That discovery had been the divergent point, and had locked him into this timeline. When it had happened, he'd assumed he'd taken the best possible route between the wildly fluctuating timelines. Now, though, with no sign of Rose. . . . What did it mean?

The next room over held less formal furniture and perhaps served as the family's living area. After a cursory glance around, the Doctor walked up to the fireplace and examined the curious objects lined up on the smooth wooden mantle. In between a number of framed photographs sat a pepper pot made of glass, which, if one squinted, resembled a miniature Dalek. He tapped it with bemusement, nudging it back in place, then picked up one of the photos. It showed two grinning boys, both with tousled hair and a strong family resemblance to Jack. His great-grandfather and great-uncle? Or grandchildren?

Now he recognized the strains of Puccini's _Madama Butterfly_, specifically the famous aria from the second act. Oddly enough, the voice sounded like the original soprano, Rosina Storchio. He'd met her at the opera's second premier in 1904 and had always meant to go back to the first premier at La Scala to compare the two performances. Perhaps he could take Rose. . . . He closed his eyes to listen to the music, the beauty of the piece at odds with the traumatic memories it evoked. He'd once died while listening to "Un bel dì vedremo", after all.

For a moment, the rise and fall of the music surrounded him with a choking feeling of sorrow. The Doctor couldn't help but remember his death, but it seemed as though the soaring notes fell about him in a cloak of grief, warning him of another death—one more costly than the last, one that he could neither hide from, nor escape by regeneration.

Deliberately, he opened his eyes and set the photograph back on the mantle. If he could find no further clues here, then he should leave. The shattered hope of finding Rose would haunt him for a long time. No need to linger here, getting maudlin.

The Doctor was halfway to the front door when he stopped. He frowned and jiggled the keys in his pocket. Something worried at him, a niggling unease, like something seen out of the corner of the eye and not fully processed. He returned to the second parlour and looked slowly around. The fireplace caught his attention. Pictures on the mantle, neatly lined up. The unusual pepper pot ornament. It really did look like a Dalek, he thought. But that wasn't it. Photographs? He hadn't really looked at them, other than the one featuring the two boys.

He let his eyes scan the pictures, looking for anything out of the ordinary. And he found it: a double-hinged gold frame with a photograph on each side. His hearts began to beat out of synch, a pounding rhythm that left him gasping for breath. He tried to control his pulse, to slow the throbbing ache that radiated from his chest, but he couldn't. All he could do was stare at the photographs—one of Jackie and Pete Tyler on their wedding day, the familiar date engraved below; the other of Rose Tyler and Jack Harkness, likewise with a date cut into the lower edge of the gold frame: 14 June, 2015.

Nine years after the Battle of Canary Wharf.

_(To Be Continued. . . .)_


	4. Finding Rose

**Chapter Four – _Finding Rose_**

_All he could do was stare at the photographs—one of Jackie and Pete Tyler on their wedding day, the familiar date engraved below; the other of Rose Tyler and Jack Harkness, likewise with a date cut into the lower edge of the gold frame: 14 June, 2015. _

-.-.-.-.-.-.-

Nine years after Canary Wharf. Nine years after she'd vanished from his life, after he'd lost her to another universe, Rose had somehow had her picture taken with Jack. It seemed unlikely, but the photograph looked genuine. Rose and Jack, together in front of a white rose arbour. Jack as dashing as ever in a dark suit and tie, Rose beautiful in a silk dress the colour of pearls, with rosebuds tucked into her hair. Jack grinning and Rose smiling, but with a shadow of loss behind her older eyes.

Impossible, his mind said. Impossible! But his heart told him the truth. Against all odds, nine years after he'd said goodbye to Rose Tyler, she'd been here, in this universe, with Jack. Not only with him, but from all appearances, had gotten herself married to the man.

"Good photo of her, don't you think?"

The Doctor nearly dropped the framed picture at Jack's voice somewhere behind him.

"Careful! That's the only picture she has of her folks' wedding," Jack said sharply.

With nerveless fingers, the Doctor replaced the frame on the mantle beside the other photographs. Only then did he feel composed enough to turn around. He forced a smile and held his hand out. "Captain! Good to see you, as always."

Jack snorted in reply and pulled the Doctor into a hug. He held onto him a bit longer than strictly necessary, but if he hadn't, the Doctor would never have believed it was really his old friend. Likewise with the hand that shifted just a bit lower than conventional to his backside. The Doctor cleared his throat politely and stepped back, only to find himself on the receiving end of a frankly appraising gaze.

"You look the same as always," Jack said with a wry grin.

"As do you. How old are you now, two hundred and forty . . . forty-five? And barely a grey hair."

Jack ran a vain hand through his hair. "Thank God, right?"

"God isn't the one you should be thanking for that."

"Maybe not. But I didn't tell her that it was her fault. I couldn't bear to see the guilt in her eyes, so I said it must've been something the Time Agency did during those two years they wiped from my memory. An experiment or something."

The Doctor let out a breath that he hadn't realized he'd been holding, and the ache in his chest eased just a little. "She's here, then. Rose is here."

Jack nodded, but twisted his lips thoughtfully. "You're late, y'know. For a Time Lord, you're rubbish at schedules. But hey—at least you got here. I was starting to think you wouldn't. At least, not in time to do any good." He shook his head. "She never gave up, though—insisted that you'd come for her. She ran those advertisements in every newspaper in the Commonwealth. Over the years, I've thought about cancelling the ad, but then I remembered what a Tyler female is like when she's enraged . . . and I decided that I like my balls where they are, thanks."

A ghost of a smile crossed the Doctor's face. "You'll never believe where I found the ad: in a museum, of all places, behind a plate of glass. A thousand-year-old relic, and I almost missed it." He glanced back at the photograph. "So. Married? Really?"

Jack shoved his hands into his pockets in unconscious imitation of the Doctor's pose. "That's right. Took her a long time to say yes, just so you know. It's not like she hopped over and plunged right into a life with me. In the end, it was a simple matter of neither of us wanting to be alone. You always came first—I always knew that I'd lose her the day you finally found her ad."

"Jack, I'm not here to . . . I didn't know that you. . . ."

Instead of replying, Jack nodded toward the row of pictures on the mantle. "See the two boys?"

The Doctor shifted his gaze to the photo in question. Once again he felt an invisible fist in his stomach. How could he have missed the resemblance to Rose? "You had children," he murmured.

"Look at the picture on the end," Jack instructed.

Numbly, the Doctor obeyed. He recognized the two boys, only they'd grown into adults and looked even more like Jack. Beside each of them stood a woman, their wives apparently, and lined up in front of them were five young children. The three boys shared a blend of features, none of which stood out as exceptional. However, one of the girls happened to have blue eyes and ginger hair, just like Pete's, while the other looked like a miniature Rose with blonde hair and wide brown eyes.

Unaware that his mouth gaped just a bit, the Doctor stared. _Grandchildren?_

"Now have a look at the picture beside that one, the other group shot."

The Doctor picked up the indicated photo. Staring back at him were older versions of all five grandchildren, three with spouses of their own. The oldest had a red-headed toddler sitting on his lap; the one who looked so much like Rose held a newborn baby in her arms, her body still rounded from pregnancy. "Great-grandchildren?"

"Like I said, you're a bit late."

His hearts began to beat out of synch, and as the strains of Madama Butterfly reached a crescendo, the Doctor felt blackness encroaching on the fringes of his vision. The photograph fell from his fingers, only to be caught by Jack in mid-air—but he didn't notice. All he could hear was the doorman's voice in his head: "_Too bad you didn't come a couple of weeks ago—they celebrated her eighty-fourth birthday like I've never seen. She was too ill to attend, but they gave gifts to all the staff._"

Vaguely he heard Jack calling his name, and he forced himself to breathe. In and out—steadying his heart until the darkness receded, for the moment. It took another few moments for him to remember how to force air past his vocal cords and when he finally spoke, he didn't recognize his own voice.

"Where is she?"

-.-.-.-.-.-.-

At first the Doctor didn't recognize Rose. The figure lying in the bed barely looked human, an old woman who clung to life by a thread of spider's silk. So pale, so fragile. . . . But then she stirred in her sleep and he saw her, really saw her, for the first time in almost forty years. Despite lines creasing her face and wisps of white hair, she looked the same. He could not deny that this was Rose—his Rose, but old . . . so very old.

So much older than a woman of eighty-four.

Even as he stared in numb dismay, he found himself calculating, gauging the time differential between universes. It ran faster over there, he knew that. Some distant part of his mind came up with a tentative answer, based on the ratio and amount of time he assumed she'd spent in Pete's World before finding a way home—and how _did_ a shop girl from London manage what a Time Lord found impossible?

The Doctor stumbled out of the room without saying a word.

Jack followed him through the flat, out the front door, down flight after flight of stairs, and out onto the rain-soaked lawn in front of the building. There, the Doctor fell onto his knees.

As the rain fell on them both, Jack stood beside the devastated Time Lord, a silent witness to his agony. Even though he had a limited telepathic ability, he could almost hear the Doctor's thoughts as he rocked back and forth on the wet grass. _Why? Why couldn't I have got here sooner? Why's she leaving me? Why'd I come all this way only to watch her die? Why do I have to be alone again? Why? Oh, Rassilon,_why

"No," the Doctor said suddenly. He lurched to his feet. Droplets of water descended down his face, raindrops mixed with tears. "No! I'm not letting this happen."

"There's nothing you can do," Jack said softly.

"Don't you say that! Don't you _dare_ say that." The Doctor stared at him, eyes darkened with pain and rage. "I'm a Time Lord. There is no higher authority in this universe! I can do as I please. And right now, all I want is to save Rose."

"And you think you can do that? You think you can go back and change history, find Rose when she first crossed over from the other universe?" Jack crossed his arms. "Suppose you do. Suppose you find her and take her with you. What happens then? You're the Time Lord, you tell me! What happens if you save Rose?"

The Doctor glanced away. "She would come with me, we'd go on exploring the whole of Time and Space, just like we used to. Only we'd be together. And maybe, somewhere in the future, on some advanced world, I could find a way to extend her life. She wouldn't have to die like this. Not for a very long time."

"And what about the timeline?"

"What about it? She's one person, Jack! One woman who means _nothing_ to anyone in this universe, except you and me."

"An ordinary person—the most important thing in creation," Jack said quietly. "That's what you said once, isn't it? When Rose tried to save her father from being killed, you told her, 'The whole world's different because he's alive.'"

The Doctor's face twisted in torment. His own words rang in his ears and he remembered the chaos brought on by a single man living when he should have died. He didn't want to listen, he didn't want to think about it, but Jack had been a Time Agent, after all. The man knew a little bit about paradoxes and timelines.

Letting out a deep breath, the Doctor stretched out his sense of Time. In his mind, he saw the vibrant gold life-strands of everyone in the city; they flickered and changed as decisions were considered and choices made. A tiny thread appeared out of nowhere, as somewhere nearby a sperm fused with an oocyte and conception occurred. Another snapped and vanished as someone died a violent death. Jack's life did not glisten or pulse like the others, but remained a solid cord, stretching into the vast future. A slender bit of silver—that would be Rose, weak and dying. A web of shimmering life-strands connected Rose and Jack: their children and grandchildren.

Cautiously, the Doctor tested the timeline. Supposing he snatched Rose away, sixty years in the past? The mesh of family strands faded into nothing. Nine lives, gone. Perhaps many more, as Rose's great-grandchildren would eventually have children, and their children would have children. What else? He followed Rose's life back, and watched as hundreds of other threads disappeared one by one. Not just her descendants, then. As a part of this world, Rose Tyler had left an impression. Her presence here had touched others, and their lives had touched others, moving ever outward in a ripple effect. Take away just one strand and the entire web disintegrated.

Hundreds, perhaps thousands of lives depended on Rose Tyler being present at a certain time and place, in order to make a difference. Not even a Time Lord could extract her from the timeline without causing a great deal of damage. In the best scenario, many citizens of Cardiff would die. In the worst, Reapers would appear to fix the damage in their own impartial way.

Grieved, the Doctor turned away. Nothing he could do would restore Rose to him. She couldn't come with him. With all of his power, he couldn't fix this. He doubled over on himself as the tragedy assaulted him. He'd failed her. Now he could do nothing but hold her hand as she died. A single groan escaped his throat, but then he forced himself upright. "No. No! This was _my_ mistake and damned if I'm going to stand here and watch her die because I got here too late."

Jack said nothing as the Doctor began walking toward the pavement. Halfway there, he spun around and pointed at Jack with a violent stab of his finger. "Didn't it occur to you that I'd use the date on the newspaper to know _when_ to arrive? Or didn't your stupid little primate brain think of that? If you'd stopped the advertisement, I could have found her a few weeks after she got here, instead of half a century too late. I could have done something before the timeline was written."

"Or, you might never have found the advertisement at all, and Rose would have died without ever seeing you again. Is that what you'd prefer? Are you such a coward that you're gonna walk out of here and leave her to die alone?"

"She isn't alone. She has you."

Jack stepped toward the Doctor. "I'm not the one she wants."

But the Doctor shook his head. "You can't ask me this. You can't . . . I can't . . . No."

"Doctor, for the past sixty years I have lived with Rose, fifty-five of those as her husband. No, you listen to me!" he insisted, when the Doctor tried to turn away. "During all that time, you were the most important thing to her. Even after we married, after we had our sons, and after our sons had children of their own, she still brought your name up every single day. Every day she wondered, 'Is this the day the Doctor will come for me?' And every night, she went to bed disappointed that you hadn't shown up. She thought that I didn't notice, but I did. I _did_ notice. And yes, it hurt that my wife longed for another man, but not as badly as you'd think, because I knew exactly how she felt."

"Don't make this about you, Jack," he protested, his voice cracking with emotion.

"My point is that there's a woman up there," and he gestured up to the upper windows of the flats, "who loves you, who never stopped loving you. She's dying, Doctor. Don't wait until it's too late to tell her that you love her, too."

The Doctor closed his eyes in pain, but Jack continued, his voice quiet but firm. "Don't wait until it's too late to say goodbye. Because you'll regret it until the day you die—and for you, that's a very long time."

And the rain continued to pour down on them both.

_(To Be Continued. . . .)_


	5. One Last Adventure

**Chapter Five – _One Last Adventure_**

_"She's dying, Doctor. Don't wait until it's too late to tell her that you love her, too. Don't wait until it's too late to say goodbye. Because you'll regret it until the day you die—and for you, that's a very long time."_

-.-.-.-.-.-.-

The Doctor sat beside Rose's bed and watched over her as she slept. He found himself counting the moments in between each breath, waiting with anxious dread for her chest to rise again. Late in the evening her eyes opened and he found himself without breath. They stared at each other for a long time, before he finally found himself able to whisper, "Hello."

She smiled, and with that movement the years between them fell away and he saw that many of the lines of her face had been caused by delight, not pain.

"Where've you been?" she asked, in a faint voice.

Her hand moved toward him; he reached for it and as their fingers joined, he felt the jolt of remembrance. _This is what forever feels like. This is joy. This is agony. This is my life._

"Rose," he murmured. And to his dismay, he felt tears forming in his eyes.

"Don't cry. Please, don't. I've had a fantastic life, just like you wanted."

He pressed his face against her hand, and hot tears fell down her wrist. The world spun out of control, too fast, the wrong direction. He loved her, still. How could he let go?

A soft knock at the door grounded him.

"Hey, look who's awake," Jack said, bringing in a tea tray. He sat down on the bed beside Rose and began arranging the silverware.

"I told you he'd come," she said to him.

"Never doubted him," Jack replied with a grin. "He showed up this morning. Broke into the place, matter of fact. Never did explain that, did you?" He glanced over at the Doctor with eyes that offered strength and understanding.

"Ah, no. No, I didn't, did I?" The Doctor cleared his throat. "Actually, I was tracking a couple of TARDIS keys. Did a scan for alien tech as soon as I arrived in Cardiff and caught the signal. I couldn't figure out why there would be two of them, but . . . what?"

Both Jack and Rose had started laughing, sharing a look that reminded him of the days before his regeneration, when it had been the three of them roaming the universe without a care. Now, though, he felt left out. "Did I say something funny?"

"Finally, some Spock!" And Rose began to laugh again. He loved the sound of it, but he heard the weakness of her breath and it frightened him.

-.-.-.-.-.-.-

While Rose took her tea, the Doctor did as unobtrusive a scan as he could. The sonic screwdriver verified what he'd suspected—those years in the other universe had aged Rose much more than her official eighty-four years. And, as Jack had said, she was dying. Not from cancer or heart disease or anything curable, but from simple old age. Nothing to be done about it. Nothing except to keep her comfortable and happy until her body could no longer sustain itself. And it wouldn't be long, now—a day, perhaps two.

He couldn't do this. But he had to. He had to be strong, for Rose. He couldn't let her see how badly he wanted to scream and curse at the universe.

But she knew. She always knew how he felt. And not once did she ask why he'd taken so long to come for her.

That evening most of the family came over for an informal supper. The Doctor recognized John and Peter from their photographs. Now middle-aged, they looked older than their father. In public, Jack explained, they were careful not to refer to him as 'father'. Likewise, though he was still Rose's husband, to the world they were known as grandmother and grandson. They all hated it, but they had to be careful to hide Jack's immortality.

Each of the grandchildren spent a little time at Rose's bedside after eating, from Robert and his wife, to the youngest, fifteen-year-old Pete. None of them questioned the Doctor's right to sit beside Rose that evening, even though they knew it might well be the last time they spoke with her. They had all grown up hearing the legend of the Doctor. He had become such an ingrained part of their history that they automatically welcomed him as part of the family, and eagerly listened to any stories of Rose and Jack that he chose to tell.

He hadn't felt so . . . _accepted_ in a very long time. Not even when Gallifrey existed had he been welcomed and made to feel at home. It felt strange. Strange and wonderful and sad, for he knew it would not last.

At one point, after telling a particularly interesting tale in which Rose had been extremely clever and Jack had been extremely naked, the Doctor found himself in possession of four-month-old Jacqueline. He stared at the unexpected bundle in his arms and opened his mouth to protest, but the infant stared back at him with such intelligent brown eyes that he relented. After all, this baby belonged to Rose, didn't she? Rose's great-granddaughter! How brilliant was that?

He could see traces of both Rose and Jack in little Jacqueline's face, and he wondered what sort of amazing things this tiny person would do when she grew up. Without meaning to, he took just a peek at her timeline. He saw it stretch out strong and full of life, until, to his astonishment, it began to flicker with the uneven stops and starts that indicated she would travel through time—not just once, but again and again.

"Best not tell granny, eh? This'll be our little secret," he whispered in Jacqueline's ear.

She squealed in response and kicked her chubby feet against his chest. With a grin, he glanced over at Rose. Though in bed, propped up with pillows, she had her great-grandson in her arms. As he watched, the toddler lifted his head to kiss Rose on the cheek, and the Doctor felt his hearts contract in pain. The boy would at least have these memories, fade though they would as he grew. Little Jacqueline would grow up without ever knowing her great-grandmother.

But the family knew everything about Rose: where she came from, what she had accomplished, everything. They would tell her stories to the little ones, as would Jack, for as long as he could bear to stay near his family. The children might not know her, but Rose would not be forgotten.

-.-.-.-.-.-.-

When the sun had long since set, and the members of the family had gradually drifted home, the Doctor found himself alone with Rose again. He sat beside her on the double bed, impressed with the muted lavender and silver silk of the duvet. Still the same girl, just more experienced and with matured tastes.

He made sure of her comfort, then settled back against a mound of pillows. "I missed you," he said, finally able to admit it without choking on the words.

"Me too." She met his gaze with watery eyes, and he saw what-could-have-been vanish into the mists of unclaimed time. What they'd lost didn't matter—only what they had now. And so he held her hand and began to tell her about all that had happened since he'd last seen her. Of course, he left some things out, and embellished others, but so did she.

Rose told him about crossing the Void and finding Jack; about raising a family; about joining Torchwood and saving the Earth time and again. He told her about Martha and Donna, Fergus, and C'leet'c, and Sinead; about saving the universe from the Master (again), and rescuing a litter of dragon pups from a supernova. She showed him photos from a holiday where an alien invasion followed them to the Boeshane Peninsula. He described for her the museum where he'd found her newspaper advertisement. They talked for hours, until the moon set and a pink glow lit the eastern sky.

Finally the Doctor stood and stretched. Rose followed him with her eyes, smiling at the popping and cracking of his joints. "Getting old?" she teased.

"Oi! Let it slip one time that you've hit a thousand and you never hear the end of it!"

She stuck the tip of her tongue out at him in a familiar gesture. Then she sobered. "Before Jack comes back in, there's something I want to ask you."

He shrugged. "I've nothing to hide from you, Rose."

"Not that kind of question. More like . . . a request."

"Oh?"

"Will you take me away from here?"

"Rose, you're ill. I don't think—"

"I'm dying. Jack tries to pretend otherwise, but I've known it for a while. And I saw it in your eyes when you first looked at me. I haven't got long, have I?"

Without a word, he looked at her. The tightening of his jaw gave answer enough.

"I've been stuck here for so long. One planet. One time. D'you have any idea how boring that gets after a few decades?"

"I might." The years he'd spent working for UNIT came to mind, when he'd been exiled to Earth of the 1970s. He rather thought he'd go mad, matter of fact, living the same life, day after day. He could understand, and yet he had to consider her health. "Rose," he began, then paused. He shook his head. "I'm not sure that would be a good idea. You're very weak."

"I don't want to die without having seen the stars again," she said. "I want to feel the TARDIS around me, to hear her song in my head one last time. I've given my life to this world. I don't want to die here, too."

The meaning of her words sunk in and the Doctor closed his eyes against the painful twist of his hearts.

"Let me come home, Doctor," she said softly.

He gave a brief nod and then leaned over her and pressed a kiss to her forehead. "You need to get some sleep, young lady. And when you wake up, we'll go on a little trip, just the three of us. How's that sound?"

"Perfect." She sighed and closed her eyes, asleep almost at once.

Jack stood in the doorway, waiting for him. He looked cross, but waited to speak until the Doctor had shut the door behind him. "A trip? Doctor, what are you thinking? She can't even get out of bed to use the toilet. She's not going anywhere."

"Isn't that up to Rose?" He raised his eyebrows, then set his jaw with determination. "She wants one last adventure, one last trip in the TARDIS. She wants to leave this time and this place, to die _out there_, where she belongs. Are you going to deny her that? Because I'm not."

_(To Be Continued. . . .)_


	6. The End of the World

**Chapter Six – _The End of the World_**

"_She wants one last adventure, one last trip in the TARDIS. She wants to leave this time and this place, to die out there, where she belongs. Are you going to deny her that? Because I'm not."_

-.-.-.-.-.-.-

When Rose woke, the Doctor had already moved the TARDIS into her bedroom. Just a quick hop through space—no risk, this time, of arriving later than he intended. She let Jack dress her, and then the two men who loved Rose carried her inside and arranged her on the jump seat.

The amber glow of the time machine lit up Rose's features so that she looked years younger. Even Jack could hear the purr of welcome from the TARDIS.

"She missed you," the Doctor said fondly, patting the time rotor.

He threw a smile to Rose, and then Jack moved into place beside him and the two of them began working the controls as if they'd never been apart. The Doctor typed a long series of numbers into the keyboard, then ducked while Jack reached over him to flip a switch. Jack leaned back to let the Doctor reach past him in order to spin a set of dials. Finally, the Doctor released the handbrake and the groaning sound of time being torn open filled the air.

"Not bad," the Doctor said, dusting his hands off. He gestured to a particular control that had to be held down in tandem with another on the opposite side of the console. "On my own, I always end up reaching for that button with my foot. Quite uncomfortable, but I imagine my companions enjoy the view." He winked at Rose; to his delight, she grinned back at him.

"So, where're we going?" she asked with sparkling eyes. Despite the wrinkles and white hair, she looked as beautiful as the first time he'd seen her, all those years ago. The Doctor thought that maybe he loved her even more, now.

With a mischievous expression, he said, "First, I thought we'd stop off and get some nibbles."

"Food?" Jack sat down beside Rose, looking every bit the stern father. "No candy! The last thing we need is a hyperactive Time Lord bouncing off the walls."

"Oh, but Jack—don't spoil his fun," Rose said.

"Not candy," the Doctor replied indignantly. "I had something else in mind. Anyone for chips?"

The TARDIS came to a shuddering halt, and the Doctor ran for the door. Over his shoulder, he shouted, "Be right back!"

True to his word, he returned in minutes with an armful of paper bags from the chip shop around the corner from where Rose grew up. Vinegar and salt leaked through onto his suit, but he didn't mind. Not if it meant seeing Rose smile again. And smile she did.

"Oh, I haven't had chips in years," she said, sitting upright in delight.

"That's because they're full of sodium and carbohydrates and—" Jack stopped. A flicker of sorrow passed over his face as he met the Doctor's eyes, then looked back down at Rose. "And you can eat as many as you want today."

"D'you remember these chips, Rose?" He flipped one of the bags around so she could see the logo printed on the greasy paper.

"How could I forget? Our first date," she informed Jack. "He'd just taken me to watch the sun explode and bought me chips to make up for it. Except he _didn't_ buy me chips, 'cause he never had any money. I had to pay for 'em. Matter of fact—you still owe me five quid!"

"Do I? Oh, er, well . . . here. Will this make up for it?" He gave her a bag of chips, then handed the rest to Jack. "Eat up, but save some for later, yeah?"

"Why? What happens later," she asked, snagging a hot chip from Jack's bag.

"Oh, you'll see when we get there! But you'll want something to snack on during the show, so don't eat every last chip now."

"Show?" Jack looked doubtful.

"Well, I say _show_. . . ." The Doctor moved back to the console. He took his reading glasses out from his jacket pocket and slid them on. While squinting at the view screen, he continued, "I really mean more of a _spectacle_."

Jack rolled his eyes in disbelief at the pun, while Rose, fortunately in-between bites, began to laugh.

He set the TARDIS in motion once more, this time without Jack's help. From the moment Rose had made her request, he'd known exactly where to take her—somewhere they'd been before—and had already set the coordinates. He needed to time this carefully so that they wouldn't miss the grand event, but also in order to minimize a dangerous paradox. No need to worry about crossing paths with his previous regeneration, and Jack hadn't been travelling with them yet, but things could get tricky with two of Rose in the same time and place. To be safe, he directed the TARDIS to materialize quite some distance from where they'd been the first time.

"Almost ready," he declared, sticking his glasses back into his pocket. "Give me just a tic."

He vanished into the depths of the TARDIS, only to reappear several minutes later with three folding chairs. Two were plain beach chairs, but the third had a thick cushion sewn to the seat and to the back. He leaned them against one of the support columns and then moved to Rose's side. "C'mon, then, haven't got all day. You ready?"

She insisted on walking, though Jack and the Doctor supported her every step. When they reached the bottom of the ramp, the Doctor opened the doors with a flourish.

A reddish glow lit up the inside of the TARDIS—a sun, swollen and dying. Rose's eyes reflected the light as she looked out at the solar system. For several minutes she didn't say a word, just stared at the sun and the blue-green world that hovered off to one side. "S'beautiful," she finally murmured.

"It is," Jack responded. "Earth?"

The Doctor nodded and slid his arm around Rose. "Our first date—d'you remember?"

"The day the sun expanded," she said with a trembling voice. "We were on that posh space platform, with all those rich aliens. That was the first time I ever saw an alien! Cassandra . . . Jabe . . . the Face of Boe . . . oh, and that nasty little blue fella who spat on me. God, that was disgusting!"

"The Moxx of Balhoon," the Doctor supplied.

Jack crossed his arms and leaned against the door frame. "You were here before? I'm just a novice time-traveller compared to you, Doctor, but isn't that a bit dangerous—crossing your own timeline and all?"

"Oh, we're safe enough. Platform One is all the way on the other side of the Earth. It's my old self over there with Rose, so she's the only one who's essentially the same person. You—" He stopped mid-sentence to blink at Jack. He'd been mistaken. Jack _was_ over on Platform One with Rose and his previous regeneration; not only that, but he'd sponsored the entire event. Not the Jack Harkness they knew and loved, of course, but a much older, wiser version—five billion years older, to be exact, and rather lacking a body. He'd often wondered how Jack had managed to go from a handsome human (with all body parts attached) to a bloated head floating in a jar of smoke . . . but he'd lacked the nerve to find out.

"Well, you weren't with us yet," he finished.

"I don't get it," Jack said. He'd grabbed a bag of chips and popped one in his mouth before continuing. "This is the day the sun expanded, right? The day the earth is destroyed—and what a lovely idea for a first date, by the way—but you were here when it happened, as guests on Platform One. Why come back?"

"We were too busy saving ourselves," Rose said quietly. "No one saw it go."

"Exactly!" The Doctor pulled the padded chair over and helped Rose to sit. A forcefield kept their atmosphere in place, but it tended to get a bit chilly near the door, so he draped a soft blanket across Rose's lap. "Such a historic occasion, the end of the earth! And we missed it. So, here we are—a second chance. Pass those chips, would you?"

-.-.-.-.-.-.-

It turned out to be quite the show. The sun sent angry white flames to lick at the gravity field that held it back, until finally the field dropped and nature took its course. The Doctor felt Rose inhale beside him as the wave of fire spun outward. For a moment, the orange-white flame seemed to pause against the purple-blue of the earth, as though reluctant to destroy the planet that had been there for so very long . . . and then it consumed the earth.

They stared, transfixed as a white-hot shockwave spread over the curve of the earth's surface. It lasted only a moment, and then the planet erupted into flame. Oceans evaporated into geysers of superheated steam, the air ignited, mountains melted into liquid fire . . . the heat and pressure became too much—and the world exploded.

All things come to an end.

The TARDIS shuddered under an assault of molten rocks but her shields held, as did the shields of Platform One. In the distance, they could see the shimmering blue light that protected the observation platform. Within, a very young Rose began to face the universe around her, clearly seeing the wonder and the danger for the first time, while a much younger Doctor began to heal from wounds inflicted by the Time War. The sun hung nearby, bloated and glowing and sated for the moment.

A beginning and an end—quite poetic, thought the Doctor. He turned to say so, but found Rose with her eyes closed. His breath caught in his throat.

"Rose?"

Jack turned, but remained silent as the Doctor brushed his fingers against Rose's neck, searching in vain for a pulse. When he found none, he touched her cheek in an unsteady caress. His hand shook as he smoothed her hair one last time, and then Jack held him as he began to weep.

_(To Be Concluded. . . .)_


	7. Letting Go

**Chapter Seven – _Letting Go_**

_The Doctor brushed his fingers against Rose's neck, searching in vain for a pulse. When he found none, he touched her cheek in an unsteady caress. His hand shook as he smoothed her hair one last time, and then Jack held him as he began to weep._

-.-.-.-.-.-.-

He was rubbish at being a Time Lord. Always ran out of time, and even now, at the depths of despair, he recognized the irony. He could save the universe in his sleep, and yet when it mattered—really mattered—he could do nothing but stand by and let his hearts shatter.

He'd been too late to prevent the Daleks from killing hundreds of billions of innocent people. When war had come to Gallifrey, he'd had a brilliant plan to save the universe, but in the end he'd run out of time . . . and as a result, his people had perished alongside the Daleks, and he'd survived to bear the guilt of failure.

He'd run out of time on the beach in Norway, so long ago. He'd wanted to tell Rose how much she meant to him, how she'd changed him, how she'd made him into a better man, but the feelings had been too strong; by the time he'd mastered them enough to speak, it had been too late . . . and he'd been left alone, to live as a mere shadow of the man he'd been with her at his side.

Now, once again, time had slipped through his fingers while he stood by, impotent and heartsbroken. Rose had lived her fantastic life, but not with him. He wanted to feel happy for her, to rejoice that, even though she'd missed him, she'd gone on and made her life worthwhile. But grief rose up and overshadowed reason.

Rage battled with anguish and resignation, surging through his body like a burning poison. After all he'd done—the worlds he'd brought back from the edge of catastrophe, the villains he'd defeated, the people he'd saved—was it too much to ask for just a sliver of happiness? A tiny bit of redemption to give him the strength to go on alone? But he deserved neither hope, nor joy. Not with all the people he'd failed to save, the worlds he'd watched fall. He'd done the best he could, and that wasn't nearly good enough, not for the last Time Lord.

And yet, how could the universe have been so cruel as to give her back only in time to watch her die? At least he'd been there, as she'd wanted, to hold her hand and show her the stars one last time. But who would hold his hand, now?

His thoughts went around in circles, until he couldn't reason, or breathe, or imagine living another moment with the weight of his grief.

Worst of all, the Doctor knew without a doubt that the entire situation could have been prevented. If he hadn't allowed emotions to cloud his logic, if he hadn't been so desperately eager to accept the gift he thought the universe had given him, then none of this would have happened. He could have paused to analyse things, to figure out that maybe he should investigate just a little before plunging in head-first. He could have had patience, and then things might have turned out differently.

If he'd acted with discretion and all the wisdom that his thousand years ought to have provided, then he might have had Rose at his side right now, laughing and holding his hand, so vibrant and alive. He might have had a chance at a few stolen years of happiness.

But he hadn't done any of those things. As usual, he'd rushed off without thinking of the consequences; without a doubt he'd paid the price.

"Doctor," said Jack quietly, from the doorway. "It's time."

"Not yet," he replied. Fresh tears spilled from his eyes, following the dried tracks down his face. He could feel Jack's gaze burning into his back, but it didn't matter what the man thought. "I'm not ready."

He felt Jack kneel beside him, but he didn't shift his gaze. Jack exhaled hard, and when he spoke, his voice held a tremble that reminded the Doctor that the other man also grieved for the woman he'd loved and lost. He felt a pang of sympathy, but only for a moment, before his own anguish rose to smother everything else.

Jack laid a hand on his shoulder and squeezed with commiseration. "It's been twenty-four hours. It's time to let her go."

The Doctor shook his head once, violently. "I can't."

"As long as we remember her," Jack said, "she isn't gone. And, seeing as how I can't die, that means that Rose will _never_ be forgotten. Not until the end of time—I promise you that."

A sob broke from the Doctor's throat, just one, and then he breathed deeply, in and out. He tried to relax his arms, but his body refused to cooperate. He shook his head. "Just a little longer . . . please."

Jack stood and looked down at him with sad eyes. "When you're ready, then."

"Thank you," the Doctor whispered.

The pain washed through him again, and silently he began to rock back and forth, cradling Rose's body in his arms as though he would never let go.

-.-.-.-.-.-.-

"Where are we?" Jack asked, looking out of the open TARDIS doors onto an expanse of black space. No sun lit the area, but from the light of distant stars he could see a vast field of asteroids. They tumbled about in a chaotic dance, swirling and spinning. Every so often one would collide with another with a spectacular spray of sparks and debris.

The Doctor joined him at the door, hands in his pockets. "Home," he said.

"Your world? Gallifrey?"

He nodded. "What's left of it, anyway. The sun collapsed into itself . . . you can almost make out the horizon of an infant black hole, if you look just there. The remnants of the planet and moons circle 'round, like the rings of Saturn. Eventually they'll all be pulled in. But for now, they remain—testament to a great civilisation. Testament to the folly of the Time Lords. Testament of. . . ." and he stopped, his voice choked. He cleared his throat and finished, "Testament of one man's desperation to save what he loved."

Jack put a hand on the Doctor's shoulder, to lend support, to offer comfort. But he doubted anything he did would reach the Doctor today. Today they laid Rose to rest.

When the Doctor had asked to be allowed to choose Rose's final resting place, Jack had agreed without question. He'd had more than fifty years with Rose. Not enough time, but then, all of eternity wouldn't be enough to spend with someone like Rose. At least he'd had all those years as her husband. The Doctor had spent less than two years with her, and instead of the joyous reunion he'd hoped for, he'd found her again only in time to watch her die. Jack could afford to be generous.

Rose wouldn't have wanted to be buried anywhere on earth. Jack hadn't expected this, though—for the Doctor to choose the site of his long-dead homeworld, a place of bittersweet, eternal regret.

The Doctor's eyes glistened with unshed tears as he looked out at the battlefield that had once been his home. Jack stood beside him, hiding his own grief to support one who didn't know how to deal with this sort of pain. Time Lords didn't cry—they wouldn't dare express such ape-like emotions—but who was left who would punish him for caring, for loving, for grieving?

"How do you go on?" the Doctor asked, so softly that Jack nearly didn't hear him.

In over two hundred years, Jack had formed attachments and lost people he loved more times than he cared to count. It hurt—God, how it hurt! But if anything, it had taught him that you couldn't let the pain control you; you couldn't let the fear of being left behind prevent you from loving, from being loved. Because that unending loneliness was somehow worse than the pain of loss.

"How do you go on?" the Doctor repeated, his voice rough with sorrow.

"You cry," Jack replied. "You scream. You curse the universe. And you live, day by day. The pain never goes away and you never forget. But each day it eases, just a little, until one day you wake up and you realize that she wasn't the last thing you thought of before you fell asleep, or the first thing on your mind when you woke. And then, one day you discover that you've gone several hours without thinking of her at all. And you feel guilty that you could forget—that you _let_ yourself forget—and so you punish yourself by dragging up all the memories you can think of, trying to make the wound bleed, just so you know that you still feel pain. Just so you know that you haven't gone numb, or forgotten her."

"And then?" The Doctor turned his head so that Jack stood within his vision, just out of focus, but there, reassuring and comforting.

"You continue to heal, until the pain becomes an ache at the back of your chest: constant but not overwhelming. And it stays that way, until one day you figure out that it's okay for you to move on, that she wouldn't hate you for learning to live again; that it's okay to laugh, and smile, and see the beauty in the universe as you once did. And one day . . . one day you wake up and you find that it doesn't hurt to think of her the way it once did. You find that you can look back at what you shared and remember the good times without guilt, or shame, or that overpowering sense of loss. It takes a long time, but it does happen . . . eventually."

"I loved her," the Doctor admitted, after a long silence.

"She knew," Jack said quietly, still grasping the Doctor's shoulder. He swallowed against the knot in his throat. "She always knew."

The Doctor nodded. He fiddled with his sonic screwdriver for a moment, then aimed it out the door. A fine mist shot out into space, glittering where the light of distant suns struck it. Slowly the dust dispersed, spread out and became one with the remains of Gallifrey. Rose had become part of the universe she loved so well, the universe that had been better off for her being there, and which now seemed dull and empty.

Debris spun past, and somehow, Jack doubted that either one of them would come back here.


End file.
